Archive for the ‘other media’ Category

This one has been floating at the edge of my life for quite a while now. My ninth grade students had to study it this past spring, and now some of my intermediate language students are reading a simplified version. One of the advanced students retold it for her “Write a love story” assignment, so I decided to stop fighting the world’s tide and reread it.

One of the things that strikes me is how unified the play is. Typically Shakespeare gives a minor plotline that converges on the main story, like the Fortinbras part of Hamlet, or the Beatrice and Benedick love story in Much Ado. There’s some displaced focus when we think of the Capulets’ scheme to marry Juliet to Paris, but that part is so closely tied to Juliet’s despair that it doesn’t feel like an interlude.

When I was in grad school, my Shakespeare professor made the comment that things don’t make much sense to us in Twelfth Night because it’s a world run by teenagers, Olivia and Orsino being fairly young. I think R+J has the same feel, even though the parents are more adult. I’ve met some people who became parents as teenagers and have become unusually mature for their age group; I’ve also met some who abdicate responsibility for their children (giving them to Juliet’s Nurse, for example), and so they never really grow up. Lady Capulet is actually a sizable role, but she’s not the type of parent I want to be.

Reading it this time, my attention was centered on Friar Laurence. I suppose that’s because, as a teacher, he is the main character I have the most in common with. He wants to fix all of society’s problems, but in aiming too high he kills his students – an outcome I have avoided, and hope to continue to avoid. I was also struck with the similarity between him and Benvolio; they both try and fail to keep the peace, and they serve the same function, the innocent witness who reports the murders. And for all that he is typically portrayed as getting drunk with Mercutio at the Capulets’ party, there is something a little monastic about Benvolio.

I watched the video of a performance at the Globe Theatre, which I can now compare with the Zeffirelli and Luhrmann films. In this performance, Romeo and Tybalt are black; I can appreciate the effort to get some different ethnicities into the play (Friar Laurence is a nonwhite New Zealander), but did they have to make the two murderers black? And no one else? In terms of racial stereotypes, this is not exactly a step forward. I prefer Luhrmann’s choices, of using black actors as the authority figure and the victim. Mercutio gets caught in the middle of a fight between white people, which is sort of what happened to the entire continent of Africa. If Adetomiwa Edun were amazing as Romeo, like Harold Perrineau is as Mercutio, I might not have been too bothered, but frankly, I thought most of the Globe’s cast was fairly wooden. Romeo bounces all over the stage like a nutter on Ritalin, even when he’s supposed to be desperate because of Rosaline’s indifference. Benvolio is one of those guys whose acting style is, “The director told me to stand here and talk, and on this line he told me to walk to this point and watch Romeo talk.” There’s very little natural movement or heartfelt emotion. I was impressed with Fergal McElherron, who plays three of the minor parts but plays them all very differently, and their Mercutio, Philip Cumbus. The audience pretty much ignored the verbal sparring and laughed only at the sex jokes, but Cumbus managed to do both very well. I like my men to be a little cocky, and Cumbus and Perrineau both do Mercutio very well. That being said, I prefer Zeffirelli’s take on the death scene: in his film, Tybalt and Mercutio only play at fighting; it’s not serious until Romeo comes between them and Tybalt accidentally kills him. The Montagues laugh all the way through his “plague on both your houses” speech because they still haven’t figured out that he’s being serious, or that he’s been seriously injured. Luhrmann’s film is more violent in general, so when Mercutio gets stabbed with a shard of glass it’s upsetting but not surprising. The Globe’s fighting is always straightforward, which in some ways robs it of the shock that the other two films have.

I have never been terribly interested in Romeo. He’s always so generic. All anyone cares about is whether he’s handsome, and actors generally are, so there’s not much to say about him. I’m a much bigger fan of Tybalt. Especially John Leguizamo. He’s so badass. I suppose there’s a part of me that responds to Tybalt’s rage; for a single-emotion character, I always find him very appealing.

But what about Juliet? I find Zeffirelli’s Juliet completely forgettable (my apologies, but that’s the most complimentary I can be). Claire Danes is fine I guess; her Juliet is very similar to her Beth March, sweet and innocent and affectionate, the kind of girl every boy wants to marry. But Ellie Kendrick really makes Juliet interesting. Danes is educated and intellectual in her real life, but I didn’t see much of that in this performance. Kendrick’s performance is the first smart Juliet I’ve seen. Unlike most of the actors, with her I could tell that she knew what her lines meant. She doesn’t just reel them off as quickly as she can so that no one can understand her (Romeo and Benvolio, I’m looking at you); she puts thought and expression into everything. I found myself growing impatient with the scenes that didn’t have her in them; she was clearly the best part of the show. I especially liked the scene where Juliet learns of Tybalt’s death and Romeo’s banishment; I felt like I was watching a mad scene in an opera, as in Lucia di Lammermoor. Her Juliet has an Ophelia quality that most of them lack.   When Danes pulls the gun on the priest I’m always a little confused at her sudden intensity, but Kendrick makes a believable transition between happy innocence and suicidal grief. And yes, her characterization here is similar to her role in Being Human, so maybe she’s a cute nerdy girl in real life, but that’s not really a problem for me. Every actor brings to a character some aspects of her real self; the trick to good acting is knowing which aspects to bring to which character. Like any other art form, acting is a mode of self-expression.

No matter what people say, Romeo and Juliet is not the greatest love story ever. It has become one of the most recognizable, the most copied, the most archetypal, but never the greatest. Two kids fall in love and kill themselves a few days later – this isn’t a grand passion, it’s deranged. Let them live in love for more than a week. Let them overcome obstacles instead of faking suicide (and then really committing suicide) at the first hurdle. Capulet has nothing but good things to say about Romeo at the party, but Juliet never gives her parents a chance to approve of the match. Basically, these kids would rather die than tell their parents they’re dating. The behavior of the fathers at the end of the play makes me think that they could have buried the hatchet without their children dying – the marriage with no possibility of divorce (or annulment, since they consummated) would have done the trick. It’s not like they took ten minutes to think about it; they jumped straight into reconciliation as if they’d been wanting this for a long time without knowing how to do it without a pretext.

Maybe this play is like Oliver Twist; I’m getting too old to enjoy it. My own love stories are very different. I might be attracted to someone at first glance, but I need more than a few flirty puns to fall in love. And I can recognize the difference between infatuation and real love. I may fall in love quickly, but I’m not going to let it cripple or kill me. I’m determined to stay alive no matter what my emotional state may become. If getting divorced didn’t kill me, I’m not going to let anything else.

I normally write here about books or the occasional movie, but music is a very important part of my life. I listen in the car and while doing household tasks, like cooking or cleaning. Most days, I probably spend more time listening to music than I do reading. I even studied music at school – I minored in piano for my undergraduate degree. Even though I took all the theory and music history courses, I still feel inadequate when it comes to writing about music. Part of that is just how patchy my knowledge of the tradition is, and another big part is that my inner hipster is ashamed of the music I enjoy. My inner hipster used to be more outward: I once wore a black turtleneck to an event where I read my own poetry, and I didn’t realize I had become a cliché until halfway through. That wannabe aesthete is still alive and kicking inside me, and he tries to direct my musical and artistic tastes, but the other selves I am don’t always listen. Yes, I like the brooding garage-band indie sound, but I also like the more poppy stuff they play in the shops.

I have begun buying music at Walmart, unapologetically. One such purchase is Christina Perri’s second album, Head or Heart. The sound is a little brighter, the mood a little more upbeat than it was in Lovestrong, just as you would expect from an artist who used to write her music alone when she had time off from waitressing and now has a lucrative recording contract and writes her songs in committee.

So, I’m breaking the silence on music because I wanted to share an experience. The other day, I was driving along and listening to this CD. The third track is a silly love duet with Ed Sheeran that I always sing along with, and suddenly I could see myself singing this with someone in the passenger seat singing the other part. Me and him, singing “Be My Forever” at each other. At the end of the song I was so happy I laughed out loud – I always laugh when I’m happy, even when things aren’t funny – then I kissed my hand and rubbed it down the side of his face, hard so that he’d know I meant it. Then the vision closed and I was alone, but I still have the hope that someday (soon) I’ll meet this guy who will sing in the car with me and make me so happy I can’t contain the feeling.

So. The ex and I had been married for a few years, and still hadn’t seen all of each other’s favorite movies, so I made her watch What Dreams May Come. I love this film – it touches on the love of children for their father, it goes into how to deal with grief and extreme depression in a romantic partner, and it’s visually one of the more beautiful films I’ve seen. Afterward, I asked her what she thought, and she was just like, eh. It’s okay. When I asked her to elaborate, she said, “It’s not real.” Of course it’s not real! It’s not intended to provide a road map of the afterlife. It’s a story about love and responses to grief; death is just a convenient way to isolate a few characters and re-juxtapose them so they don’t recognize each other. Diana Wynne Jones and C. S. Lewis do this by transporting characters into magical fantasy worlds; the filmmakers just used death instead of a magical wardrobe. For me, the fact that the movie isn’t real doesn’t matter.

This question came up in reading Zealot. The book is a biography of Jesus, based on historical research. Being based on documented fact instead of the accounts written by his followers, the depiction of Jesus is rather different than what most people expect. But, like with What Dreams May Come, is it real? And does that matter?

The Fox-News interview focused on his credentials instead of on his book, so let’s review those. Aslan was raised a Muslim in Iran, but his family fled to the United States. Islam became a reminder of the troubles they were escaping, so most of them left off practicing. As a teenager, he became converted to evangelical Christianity; preparing for college, he reverted to Islam. He got a PhD in religion and an MFA in creative writing, attending the illustrious Iowa Writers’ Workshop. This much he tells us himself, in the introductory material. First off, we need to address the IWW. It’s famous for producing some of America’s finest writers in the last few decades. However, I’ve noticed that while they all have different interests and foci in their work, they all tend to sound the same. The IWW style is clear, concise, serviceable. But it’s not florid. I like florid. I like it when an author luxuriates in language simply because he loves words. The IWW writers don’t do this. For them, language is not a paintbrush; it’s a screwdriver. There were no passages of especial beauty for me to transcribe here – Aslan has written the least emotional account of Jesus’ life I’ve ever read, possibly the least emotional account of any person’s life. It draws the reader in, moves quickly, shows off the author’s vocabulary, describes the setting sufficiently to place the reader in the world depicted, all those things that good prose is supposed to do, except make the reader fall in love. Porro unum est necessarium.

What is a Muslim doing writing about Jesus? Well, what is Islam? Submission to God, worship of the single monotheistic God. Therefore, all the prophets, all of ‘God’s people,’ have been Muslims. Islam teaches of four major prophets: Abraham, Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad. Followers of Abraham, Moses, and Jesus were just as much Muslims as those who follow Muhammad today. The Qur’an tells stories about Jesus; they have just as much a right to him as anyone else. Christians write books about Jeremiah and Isaiah; Muslims can write about Jesus. The point that Aslan focused on, though, is that he has a terminal degree in religion. He teaches religion in a prestigious university. It’s his job to talk about Jesus all day long. He’s not writing a book about faith; it’s a book about a historical person, one that the author has spent years studying. I could write my thesis on Charlotte Brontë and Jane Austen without being an Englishwoman; Aslan can write a book about Jesus without being Christian.

But he’s wrong in implying that Islam has nothing to do with his book. Iran tends to be mostly Shia; this is the minority of Muslims that are more prone to violent acts in the name of God. When he describes the Jewish Robin Hoods that were trying to throw off the yoke of the Roman oppressor, waving their swords and shouting “No lord but God,” it sounds an awful lot like Muslim extremists who go into their fight against Israel (or more moderate Muslims) saying the “La illaha.” Aslan never makes this explicit, but his language certainly invites the comparison. He makes Jesus seem like a two-thousand-year-old suicide bomber. Aslan rips apart the Christian idea of Jesus and replaces it with a narrative that fits more closely with Islam’s presentation of him, including the idea that the deification of Jesus began with Paul, who rarely concerned himself with what Jesus actually said.

The first quarter of Aslan’s book describes the historical context, going back about 150 years before Jesus was born and extending a hundred years or so after he died. The focus is on the interaction between Jerusalem and Rome. Judea was a troublous province way off in the sticks; they wouldn’t submit to assimilating nicely like all the other conquered peoples. Jerusalem was the home of the Temple, the symbol of the Jews’ faith and their most important gathering-place. This was where God spoke to the people. The priests tended to live in luxury while the rest of the Jews got poorer and poorer. They blamed their poverty on the wealthy foreigners who moved into their cities (or built their own new cities on Jewish land). There were a number of violent insurgents who tried to drive the foreign elements out of their land and free the Jews; a lot of them were called messiahs. Rome was brutal in putting down the insurgents. They called them bandits and thieves, like the two who talked to Jesus when they were all hanging around on the crosses. The extreme violence makes this a terrible time and place to have lived. This part of the book, I think, would be of great interest and import to those people who want to understand the world Jesus lived in, what he would have considered normal. These are his cultural expectations.

The second quarter, a little longer than the first, tells the story of the life of Jesus. There are very few reliable historical documents that refer to him; Aslan talks about Josephus’s brief mentions of him. Some of this section is derived directly from the source material in the first: Jesus was killed for the same crime as some of these other guys, so let’s see what they did to draw attention to themselves and then assume that Jesus did something similar. Aslan has a troubled relationship with the Bible; some parts he dismisses as fabrications, others he treats as historical fact, and he rarely tells us why he treats the stories so differently. The thing is, like What Dreams May Come, most of the Bible was never intended to be taken as literal historical fact. The different gospels were written with different purposes in mind: to compare Jesus to King David as king of Israel, or to convince people that he was this eternal god incarnated for a brief time, for example. The stories in the gospel aren’t about facts; they’re about truth. If your messiah is an illiterate, probably illegitimate peasant, then you’ll need to argue that he’s descended from the royal line of Israel, whether anyone believes it or not. The point of those genealogies is to tell us who Jesus should remind us of, not to trace a literal family tree.

In chucking out a good bit of the gospels, Aslan is chucking out the Qur’an as well. Muslims also believe in the virgin birth, though Aslan dismisses it as a patent impossibility. He says that either Joseph jumped the fence or Mary was sleeping with a Roman soldier. Yet, he accepts Jesus’ ability to perform miracles. The area was full of faith healers, and no one (in the Roman government or American academia) seems to have opposed them. Why can we accept the idea that Jesus was an actual magician, but not that he was born magically? Aslan seems arbitrary in his choice of what he will accept and what he will not. As another example, Aslan does not challenge the story of the Transfiguration even though there were only four people present for it and none of them wrote the story of it. None of them could have, not being able to read or write. The gospels come from two basic sources, Mark and Q. Mark was written thirty years or so after Jesus died, and I’m not sure about Q. Q has gone missing, but scholars have recreated much of it by using the shared material in Matthew and Luke. And John, well, John’s just different.

The main point is that Jesus defied the authority of Rome and the Temple. The Temple was in Rome’s pocket anyway, since they appointed the high priests. Jesus drove out the Roman influence and said a lot of Jerusalem-for-the-Jews kind of stuff. There was also the Triumphal Entry. Jesus was challenging Rome, so the Romans killed him, just as they had everyone else who had done the same thing. It’s pretty simple.

Much simpler than the task of harmonizing the four gospels. The only other account of Jesus’ life I’ve read is James E Talmage’s Jesus the Christ. His attempts are sometimes contrived, and his story is much drier. Even in the faith tradition Talmage comes from, his book is considered difficult to get through. He puts forth a valiant effort to make the four different stories fit together; often he’s successful, sometimes not so much. Talmage accepts everything in the gospels as gospel, though, unlike Aslan.

The third section is comparatively brief. It covers the time after Jesus’ death. It reads a bit like The Brontë Myth; it’s about the creation of Jesus as a phenomenon, how he is uncoupled from his historical reality and transformed into The Christ. Aslan blames first Stephen, who claimed to see Jesus sitting at the right hand of God (and therefore in a position of equivalent power and authority), right before he was stoned to death for blasphemy. Yeah, it is blasphemous, and Jesus would have seen it that way too. The next, more important culprit is Paul. Originally he went around persecuting the followers of Jesus, but he had a dramatic conversion experience and joined their team. But the problem is that he never really joined them. He took the idea of Jesus to the Greek-influenced foreigners and repackaged him for their consumption. That’s why he stripped away all of that Law-of-Moses stuff: so that his Hellenic audience would buy it. The real followers of Christ in Jerusalem didn’t. They called him back to Jerusalem to try to get him back in line with the rest of them, but he absolutely refused. Paul went on inventing Christian theology with nary a thought as to the actual historical Jesus, whom most people could still remember (if they had ever heard of him before Paul started preaching). Unfortunately in the eyes of some, Paul’s version caught on in Rome (even though Peter got there before him), and when Christianity became the religion of the empire, it was Paul’s version, which he mostly made up himself.

The really important guy was James, Jesus’ brother. Despite what many Christians believe, James was the real leader of the group of Jesus’ followers, not Peter or Paul. He did everything he could to keep the real, historical, political, Jewish Jesus alive in people’s minds and hearts. His version of things wasn’t so popular with the literate, powerful crowd as Paul’s was, so he has faded with time. James was the monotheistic one who didn’t associate anyone else in the worship of God; Paul started all that polytheistic weirdness we call the Trinity.

The last third of the book is documentation and source material, so maybe Aslan isn’t as arbitrary as he seemed to me. But reading through bibliographical references isn’t very interesting, so I skipped that part. Besides, I don’t know enough about the academic study of Jesus’ life to recognize any of his citations.

How should Christians take all this? Well, they survived The Da Vinci Code, they can survive this. They already believe in a lot of things that defy logic, so I don’t see how a logical argument like this one can pose any sort of threat at all. It’s so polarized that it will only convince those who are already inclined to agree with it. It’s easy to dismiss if you’re thoroughly convinced in the literal interpretation of the Bible. I found Aslan’s book convincing, despite the occasional inconsistencies, but I was raised in a church where the most influential leader of the nineteenth century said that the story of creation in Genesis is more of a bedtime story than anything to do with either history or science.

Which leads me back to What Dreams May Come. So, I’ve determined that the stories in the Bible aren’t factual. But does that matter? Like the film, they were never intended as such. There are still a lot of good ethical ideas in Christian writings, still a lot of beauty in Christian poetry, still some comfort to be had in Christian ritual. But I can admit that without having to adopt their version of a suicidal, bloodthirsty, vengeful, jealous, possibly plural god. I don’t have to reject everything in Christianity, but I don’t have to accept it all either. I just need to remember that in my ongoing search for spiritual guidance, I can’t rely on those who interpret the bible literally. It all has to be taken with a grain of salt.

Evelyn Waugh writes about Britain’s upper middle class during the Great Depression; a bit like Jane Austen a hundred years later, or Aldous Huxley when he’s not being science fiction-y, but without the comedy of either of them. There are a few vague attempts at humor, but this is not a funny story.

The book opens introducing John Beaver, a young man whose family was once wealthy though he is not. He lives with his mother, who does dreadful interior decorating, and survives by getting invited to lunch or dinner. No one actually likes him, but he’s useful in filling up the numbers at a party because he’s always available and knows how to look and act in a drawing room. In a world where one of the worst possible things is to have an odd number of guests at dinner, this is an invaluable skill. However, Beaver’s not the protagonist, and soon sinks into obscurity. His existence in the novel is more important than his actual presence.

Beaver was sort of half-heartedly invited to go down to the country for a weekend, but the host forgets he had said anything to him, so it’s rather a surprise when he shows up. Tony Last, the actual protagonist, introduces him to his wife and then manages to avoid him for most of the weekend. He apologizes to Brenda, but she says it really wasn’t that bad. Their house was redone in the neo-Gothic style of the mid-nineteenth century, and it symbolizes Tony’s adherence to tradition. It’s out of fashion and a bit isolated, it evokes an idealized past that never quite existed, and his wife only pretends to be happy there.

Brenda goes up to town and begins an affair with Beaver, one of those discreet affairs that is only a secret from the husband. Tony has his son and his farms, but as Brenda spends more time in London, he gets increasingly lonely. She hires a bedroom in a block of flats, the sort of room that really only has one purpose. All the fashionable people are getting such rooms in a city where they already have a house or apartment so they can carry on their affairs. She pops down to the country to see Tony on the weekends, or not, and always brings a group of friends with her. For a while she tries to get him interested in one or two young ladies, but he’s not interested. Some people are congenitally faithful.

Then their son dies in an accident and Brenda petitions for a divorce. They decide that it’s better for her to be the plaintiff, so he goes off to Brighton with a lady-for-hire. This was really funny in The Gay Divorcee, but in the novel it’s just pathetic. Tony’s not happy and barely goes through the motions (of seeming to have sex, not of actually doing it) and the lady brings her eight-year-old daughter. Then he finds out that her lawyers are asking for a settlement large enough to support her and Beaver in their new marriage, and he quits being reasonable. Eventually he goes off to Brazil to let things adjust in his absence.

There’s a film, done in 1988. It seems as faithful as film could possibly be. The movie opens with a scene in Brazil, after Tony’s camp is destroyed but before he meets Mr Todd, so the majority of it is a flashback with a slight air of delirium. It seems strange to me to see James Wilby and Kristen Scott Thomas leading a film (who are they again?) when names I know so much better have such minor roles – Judi Dench, Anjelica Huston, and Alec Guinness are all supporting cast. The book’s attitude toward the Brazilians is quite sufficiently colonial, as expected for an English author writing in 1934, but the film actually makes it worse by having the Indians steal all of Tony’s stuff. Waugh is careful to point out that they do not take anything that doesn’t belong to them. The film does tone down some of the misogyny, but I actually regret that. When men are rejected by a woman, they spread their anger to all women. This is just what we do; I understand that women often do the same to us. In the wake of the divorce, I’ve had moments when I’m very misogynistic indeed, so when Jock’s girl cancels on him and he says,

It’s the last time I ask that bitch out.

I almost cheered. It seems so natural. When men are alone and unhappy, this is how they really talk, even today. Generally, novels sanitize this sort of thing. It’s not the misogyny that I celebrate, but Waugh’s freedom in portraying it. A moment of unlooked-for realism.

At some point I’m going to have to stop thinking of myself as recently divorced. Books like this tend to bring that time closer to me, but at least the old wounds aren’t opening back up. This novel didn’t hurt the way that some others have done. In some ways my divorce was exactly the same as Tony and Brenda’s, and in other ways it was completely different. My ex never had an affair, but having children can create that distance too. All of the ways that she had shown me affection went to them; my role became more functional, paying the bills and fathering the children. Over time, love becomes an assumption that you don’t examine closely. I’ve had to stop talking about this part of things because people tend to assume that the fact that I was unfulfilled in my marriage means that I’m not really gay, I only came out to create a situation where I could get a divorce without it being anyone’s fault. Throughout the proceedings, though, we both tended to act like it was someone’s fault – mine.

When you’ve been together for eight years, you tend to have all the same friends. The ex didn’t much care for most of my previous friends, so the only people I spent time with only knew us as a couple, not as singles. They tried to get us back together, but only drove us further apart. When people talk to your very recent ex and then talk to you, they distort things to make it seem like reconciliation is possible. They mean well, but it’s just not helpful. There are times when offering hope is just cruel. Waugh captures this aspect of divorce quite well. Brenda might be tired of Beaver by now, but until she figures that out herself, that piece of information is not going to help Tony. She may not want Tony to be sad, but she doesn’t want to be with him either. My divorce had a great deal of confusion on this topic for a few weeks, until she and I met and she made her feelings clear. Then I had to tell people to stop helping, that we were not going to get back together. I tried to avoid telling them flat-out that they were wrong about her feelings; I don’t remember whether I succeeded.

There comes a point when you realize suddenly that everything is over. At first, it’s like this:

For a month now he had lived in a world suddenly bereft of order; it was as though the whole reasonable and decent constitution of things, the sum of all he had experienced or learned to expect, were an inconspicuous, inconsiderable object mislaid somewhere on the dressing table; no outrageous circumstance in which he found himself, no new mad thing brought to his notice could add a jot to the all-encompassing chaos that shrieked about his ears.

Then, something happens, and

His mind had suddenly become clearer on many points that had puzzled him. A whole Gothic world had come to grief . . . there was now no armour, glittering in the forest glades, no embroidered feet on the greensward; the cream and dappled unicorns had fled . . .

You lose your illusions about the situation and about the person you had been married to. Once the unicorns flee, you can face your future resolutely, realistically. You can let go.

Tony and Brenda agree on a settlement privately, but when the lawyers get involved the amount quadruples, at least partially on the insistence of Beaver. He doesn’t have an income large enough to support himself, much less her. Part of the advantage of the affair is that she feeds him; when that’s done, so is he. The larger amount, though, would require Tony to give up his house, which he refuses to do. When we split, my ex gave notice on the apartment without consulting me, so I ended up homeless for a while. Tony draws the line at that, and cuts Brenda off with nothing. Since the weekend with the girl is obviously faked and everyone knows about the affair with Beaver, it’s not hard to get away without being required to pay her anything. I didn’t have a single turning point when I was suddenly ready to stick up for my rights; it came on slowly. The ex and I settled on an amount of child support that was reasonable for three kids, but completely out of proportion to my income. I spent the next year trying not to starve to death, and only barely succeeding. When you’re raised on the Protestant work ethic, you see your ability to provide for yourself and your family as a marker of self-worth. Economic anorexia is a dangerous thing, because while you can justify it because you can’t afford to eat, the truth is that you feel like you don’t deserve to eat. That can take the joy out of food that you don’t pay for as well. Eventually, I had to sell my car to pay my child support.

I find that emotions are often tied to places. When I came back home after vacation, all the loneliness and depression I had left behind were waiting for me at the door. I am rather anxious to relocate when my contract is over. But when separating from a spouse, it can be good to put some physical distance between yourself and the situation. Tony and I both thought an ocean would be enough. He left England for Brazil, and I left America for the Middle East. Tony’s such a quiet, stay-at-home sort of fellow that it’s strange when people start calling him an explorer, but he really does go off to the Amazon to look for El Dorado. Instead he finds Mr Todd, a missionary child left in the jungle when his parents died. Now he’s an illiterate old man with the complete works of Charles Dickens. He captures people who know how to read English and forces them to keep reading aloud. One of his favorites is Little Dorrit, a book about the different types of imprisonment in Victorian England; part of the absurdity of the situation is that Tony clings to his Victorian home and values, only to end up imprisoned by the literary embodiment of them. Living where I do is a bit like Mr Todd’s. Of course I have the freedom to leave when I like, but there’s nowhere to go. The difficulty of getting anywhere makes it an effective prison. It was good for me to come here and sort out my issues with being divorced, being gay, yet still being worth keeping alive, but I’m beginning to fear that I’m going to end up like Tony. It’s time to find something else to do, to go live another life.

There are some events that seem to divide a person’s life into two equally important halves, even though there are many years before and only a few days or hours after. Marriage, the birth of a child, moving to a foreign country. Divorce is one. But given time, the event becomes a part of your past and you can see it in its proper perspective. I thought that getting divorced was going to kill me. I thought it was the worst possible thing ever. But now I’m quite pleased that it happened. I’m free in a way I could never have been when I was still married. Maybe this is why I don’t get all excited about gay marriage. I’ve been a husband once; I’m not in a rush to try it again.

I’ve just finished four days of this program, one season per day. It’s been a bit rough, but I made it through. In some ways, this program fits the definition for addiction: the more I watch, the less satisfied I become with it, but I can’t seem to stop. I hate Game of Thrones spoilers as much as other people, so I’ll refrain from doing that here. Much.

I’m pretty rubbish at remembering people’s names, especially when I only see them on television. In a book, every time you see someone you read her name, but people don’t always say the names of the people they’re talking to. And the names on this show are usually pretty weird. I remember the names that are short and easily recognized, like Stannis, or the nicknames, like The Hound, or I call them functional names, like The King’s Bastard. It’s hard to know which names are important, because sometimes people seem like extras but end up being rather important recurring characters. Others seem hugely important, but only actually appear a small number of times, like Balon Greyjoy. They keep giving more details about Robert’s Rebellion, but I can’t remember most of the story because I get all those dead Targaryens mixed up.

Backstory. Fifteen or twenty years before the show begins, there was the Mad King, something-or-other Targaryen. He was obsessed with fire, and started burning people alive. Robert Baratheon led a rebellion against him, assisted by his very good friend Eddard Stark. Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King, was also somehow involved. His son Jaime was the youngest member of the king’s guard, and one day Jaime killed the Mad King, saving thousands of lives. Forever after he’s known as The Kingslayer. Robert became king. He had been engaged to Ned Stark’s sister, but she died, so he married Jaime’s twin sister Cersei. During all the fighting Ned produced an illegitimate child, which he took home to his faithful wife. Catelyn Stark can forgive Ned for cheating, but she can’t forgive the boy for existing.

As the story begins, the King’s Hand, Jon Arryn, has been murdered, so Robert comes to the far north to ask Ned Stark to take his place. Ned is the last man in the seven kingdoms that Robert can trust. So Ned travels to the capital to serve the king, which means figuring out who killed Jon Arryn and why. Game of Thrones begins as a murder mystery set in a sword-and-sorcery fantasy world. Unfortunately, as Ned learns how the structures of power work in King’s Landing, the mystery becomes less important and court intrigues take over the plot; they lead to a civil war partially based on the Wars of the Roses (Stark/Lannister, York/Lancaster). The war carries on through several seasons. Meanwhile, Danaerys Targaryen is across the sea, gathering followers, giving birth to dragons, preparing to recover the throne that belonged to her family. Also meanwhile, mystical snow zombies are marching south to destroy everyone. There’s a great wall that should protect them, but the people who live north of the wall (Wildings or Free Folk, depending on your point of view) are running scared, desperate to get to the other side but not desperate enough to abide lawfully.

Issues. The first that springs to mind is gender roles. Jaime and Cersei are twins born to the most wealthy family in existence; he is taught to fight, she is taught to smile. Gender is very rigidly defined, and those who would break the traditional roles end up in a heap of trouble. Brienne of Tarth, for example, is one of the best swordfighters in the show. She’s hugely tall and very strong. She wears armor and protects her king, but people are always making fun of her and she’s always saying either that she’s not a knight or that she’s not a lady. She’s kind of both, actually. I’m not sure what her relationship is to her own body, but she covers it more effectively than most women even when she’s not dressed for battle. There’s a bathing scene that’s kind of awkward; it feels like a violation to see her, even though we don’t see anything. Most of the named female characters are brave and intelligent, and many of them are more effective in achieving their goals than the males. Unfortunately, the unnamed female characters tend to be whores or kitchen wenches. Even those intelligent women often have to use their bodies to get their needs met, and after a while the screen nudity just becomes normal. I kind of went into breast overload and stopped reacting to them. Rape seems to be pretty common; people certainly talk about it a lot.

Men do their best to reduce women to a single trait, beauty. However, they do the same to each other; men are reduced to strength. At one point, a very large man and a girl are traveling through the countryside and he kills a farmer. She asks why, and he says that it is simply because the man is weak. Physical strength is generally the most important, but having powerful allies or a lot of money are also ways to avoid being killed. The pressure on men is most apparent in the portrayal of homosexual men. Yes, there are gay men with almost graphic sex scenes, so hooray for that. But, once a man is seen in bed with another man, he immediately becomes ineffective. Gay men are reduced to their sexuality; there’s very little else interesting about them, and they don’t win any fights. Once a relationship is over, they disappear. Male bodies are often displayed as completely as female, but less often. There is some full frontal action, if (like me) that’s what you’re into, but much less frequently than for the women. It’s almost like an afterthought or a mistake, even though I know it isn’t.

Servitude is also important. Danaerys wanders around Essos freeing slaves, which is great except for the unfortunate race thing, but I’m more interested in the attitudes in Westeros. Most of the characters seem to see their lives as meant for service; they get their identities and self-esteem from serving their masters well. There’s no shame in service, but the dependent attitude bothers me. I go to work eight hours a day, but I tend to think of that as the price I pay for living here. My real life is at home, where I don’t have any masters. I don’t think of myself as serving my employers, either. They do, but I don’t. I teach people to communicate, and in order to work contentedly I have to think of it in these idealistic terms. My teenage rebellion came a little late, when I was thirty years old, and I’m still too independent to be happy working for someone else just to get a paycheck. Almost all of the ‘good guys’ on the show insist on being servants, though, and that makes me uncomfortable.

Reputation is everything at court. It can be built on nothing at all, but it must exist. The world is full of spies and rumors, so it is vital to understand what is being said about you. The reputation for strength is more important than actual displays of it; win a couple of well-publicized fights and you never need to fight again, if you don’t want to. Loras’s grandmother can argue for the value of a little discreet buggery, but no repeated action is that discreet, and people saying tolerant things doesn’t stop jokes like, ‘He can’t be that great a swordsman. He’s been stabbing Renly for years, and he’s still alive.’ It would be very difficult for Loras to lead any kind of group because they’re too worried about what he does off the battlefield; therefore, he doesn’t. On the other hand, Petyr Baelish has worked his way up from nothing to the king’s Small Council; being called Littlefinger doesn’t seem to have damaged him much. As the owner and manager of one of the more exclusive whorehouses, he has a lot of other people’s reputations in his power as well. According to the show, ‘Men like to talk when they’re happy.’ Littlefinger isn’t the only one who rises almost to the top by keeping other people’s secrets.

Power is generally sought by those least suited to wielding it.

People on this show go on and on about justice, but I don’t see much of it. It looks more like revenge most of the time. Justice implies a certain balance, an order restored; there is no balance or order here. Just a lot of violence, some of it for no reason at all. People who watch the show talk about evil, but I think of evil as involving some form of malice that is either without motive or disproportionate to its cause. I’ve heard Cersei Lannister in particular called evil, but she doesn’t fit my definition. She’s selfish and cruel, but her motives are pretty clear, and everyone else’s hatred is on the same scale as hers. In terms of good and evil, she’s not that different from Arya Stark; she’s just in a position to do more about it.

The religion of people is interesting. There are old gods, and there are also several new gods. There’s a group of seven mentioned at weddings, Father Warrior Smith Mother Maiden Crone Stranger. The meaning of those words becomes more clear in Season Four when people start praying out loud, to all seven individually. [See the codification of gender roles in religion! The males are defined by profession, the females by age.] The other gods can be hard to keep up with; there’s a Flayed God and a Drowned God, and probably several more. There’s also a cult of The One True God, some kind of fire deity who demands human sacrifices and calls himself The Lord of Light. He’s involved in several supernatural occurrences, while the other gods aren’t. I think it’s the old gods who are involved in the tree at Winterfell – up north, there’s a species of white tree with red leaves that grows a pattern that looks like a face in its bark and oozes red sap. These trees are regarded as sacred spaces. My favorite religious statement, though, is from Arya’s dancing master: ‘There is only one god, Death. And there is only one thing that we say to Death: Not today.’

Death is one of the most important things in this series. Everyone dies. We all know that, but Americans try to ignore it. In this series, you can’t. Everyone dies. When you get attached to a character, that’s almost a surefire way to predict that he’s going to die. Bad people die, good people die, badass people die, people with nice asses die, everyone dies. It’s actually understandable; there are several dozen named characters, most of whom have their own story to live out, and it’s hard to follow that many plotlines. Solution? Kill people. Maybe they will have some closure, maybe not. But kill them all the same.

Some authors simply love their characters: Jane Austen and Piers Anthony spring to mind. They are determined to give as many happy endings as possible. I have never seen an author who hates his characters as much as George R R Martin. A boy likes to climb? Let’s cripple him. A man gets his identity from swordfighting? Let’s chop off his sword hand. Someone has the initiative, intelligence, deviousness, and proper family to rule the Kingdoms? Let’s make him a dwarf so that no one will listen to him. Someone’s trying to do the right thing? Let’s give him partial information so that his decisions have disastrous consequences. There’s a limit to my tolerance for dramatic irony. The Mad King died shouting, “Burn them all! Burn them all!” I sometimes feel like Martin is going to go the same way. No one is going to survive this series.

Cloud Atlas is structured as a series of interrelated novellas, but upon reading it this time, I believe that it tells one story, about how corporations destroy the world. Some of the people quoted on the cover seem to wonder how it was possible for one man to have written this. I think it’s pretty obvious. First, read widely enough that you’re basically familiar with several genres of fiction. If you love reading, this is not necessarily hard. Then, write one of your six novellas at a time. Read particularly deeply into the genre of the one you’re writing as you go along. After you have your six separate pieces, split them apart and sandwich them together, 1-2-3-4-5-6-5-4-3-2-1. It’s not a simple process, but it’s not mindblowingly difficult to understand how he did it. It’s not like authors sit down at page one and write straight through until they finish page 510. The narratives are nested like matryoshka dolls, but someone in Narrative n+1 is always reading Narrative n, so the stories frame each other backwards, like an inside-out Arabian Nights. Each protagonist gets into some sort of trap, and as the net tightens, they find ways to escape: execution, suicide, rescue, triumph.

Part Six: Post-Apocalyptic, Neo-Prehistoric Fantasy

Zachry is a teenager living on Hawaii, the last remaining bit of land that hasn’t been poisoned by ecological disasters so far in the past they’re forgotten. People can live here, so they do. Zachry’s people are fairly peaceful, but the warlike Kona are always threatening their existence. There’s almost no technology, and most children have severe birth defects that prevent their living long, like Zachry’s son who was born without a mouth or nostrils. There’s another group of people on a distant island who retain an understanding of advanced technology, and they come around twice a year to trade. One of these Prescients stays for a half-year to study Zachry’s people, and while he resists at first, he eventually grows close to her. They take a heroic journey up Mauna Kea, and she reluctantly tells him how the world became so fucked up:

Eerie birds I din’t knowed yibbered news in the dark for a beat or two. The Prescient answered, Old Uns tripped their own Fall.

Oh, her words was a rope o’ smoke. But Old Uns’d got the Smart!

I mem’ry she answered, Yay, Old Uns’ Smart mastered sicks, miles, seeds an’ made miracles ord’nary, but it din’t master one thing, nay, a hunger in the hearts o’ humans, yay, a hunger for more.

More what? I asked. Old Uns’d got ev’rythin’.

Oh, more gear, more food, faster speeds, longer lifes, easier lifes, more power, yay. Now the Hole World is big, but it weren’t big ‘nuff for that hunger what made Old Uns rip out the skies an’ boil up the seas an’ poison soil with crazed atoms an’ donkey ‘bout with rotted seeds so new plagues was borned an’ babbits was freakbirthed. Fin’ly, bit’ly, then quicksharp, states busted into bar’bric tribes an’ the Civ’lize Days ended, ‘cept for a few folds’n’pockets here’n’there, where its last embers glimmer.

I asked why Meronym’d never spoke this yarnin’ in the Valleys.

Valleysmen’d not want to hear, she answered, that human hunger birthed the Civ’lize, but human hunger killed it too. I know it from other tribes offland what I stayed with. Times are you say a person’s b’liefs ain’t true, they think you’re sayin’ their lifes ain’t true an’ their truth ain’t true.

Yay, she was prob’ly right.

Zachry’s people believe in a goddess Sonmi, who watches over and protects them. They have an Abbess who interprets Sonmi’s will for them – useful sort of a person, I suppose. The Prescient, however, knows that Sonmi was a real person who lived a few hundred years before, and Zachry finds a recording of Sonmi, which forms the next part.

Part Five: Hi-Tech Sci-Fi Tragedy

Think Arthur Clarke, or Isaac Asimov. Much of the world has been deadlanded, or rendered unfit for human habitation. This makes it clear that the devastation in Zachry’s world isn’t from a nuclear war; it’s the natural, gradual evolution of the type of system we already live in. Korea hasn’t been destroyed yet, but corporations have taken over the government, and to some extent the language. Spelling is simplified to levels that are occasionally hard to understand, and most products have been renamed with a brand name, so all cars are called fords and all films are called disneys. Sonmi-451 is a clone worker for not-quite-McDonald’s; she and her ‘sisters’ work for nineteen hours a day for twelve years, engineered not to ask questions or desire anything more in life. Sonmi begins to develop higher brain function, so she’s removed for further study. Over time, she realizes that she’s the victim of a plot much more devious than she had originally thought. As she’s running from the corporate police, she meets a small commune outside the city, where people resist the corporations.

I said how all purebloods have a hunger, a dissatisfaction in their eyes, xcept for the colonists I had met.

The Abbess nodded. If consumers found fulfillment at any meaningful level, she xtemporized, corpocracy would be finished. Thus, Media is keen to scorn colonies such as hers, comparing them to tapeworms; accusing them of stealing rainwater from WaterCorp, royalties from VegCorp patent holders, oxygen from AirCorp. The Abbess feared that, should the day ever come when the Board decided they were a viable alternative to corpocratic ideology, “the ‘tapeworms’ will be renamed ‘terrorists,’ smart bombs will rain, and our tunnels flood with fire.”

I suggested the colony must prosper invisibly, in obscurity.

“Xactly.” Her voice hushed. “A balancing act as demanding as impersonating a pureblood, I imagine.”

After her adventures in running from society, Sonmi writes a series of Declarations that oppose the current system, gets labeled a terrorist, and while you know what will happen to her, her Declarations spread and become the ruling doctrine for the majority of (what’s left of) humanity. But while she’s running, she watches a film about a little old man who gets trapped in a retirement home.

Part Four: Gothic Suspense.

Think Ann Radcliffe or Franz Kafka, but in roughly contemporary England. Timothy Cavendish is a small-time vanity publisher who gets into big trouble when one of his books becomes an accidental success. Running from goons in London, he goes to borrow even more money from his brother, who sends him off to an address in Hull. The address is for an old-folks home taken straight from Ken Kesey, complete with a Nurse Ratchet type overlord. She is prepared to take every necessary step to keep the senile dears from hurting themselves or others, including cutting off all communication with the outside world and confiscating all keys and valuables. Cavendish makes a few friends who still have some sense, and they plot their escape.

“Oh, once you’ve been initiated into the Elderly, the world doesn’t want you back.” Veronica settled herself in a rattan chair and adjusted her hat just so. “We – by whom I mean anyone over sixty – commit two offenses just by existing. One is Lack of Velocity. We drive too slowly, walk too slowly, talk too slowly. The world will do business with dictators, perverts, and drug barons of all stripes, but being slowed down it cannot abide. Our second offense is being Everyman’s memento mori. The world can only get comfy in shiny-eyed denial if we are out of sight.”

“Veronica’s parents served life sentences in the intelligentsia,” put in Ernie, with a dash of pride.

She smiled fondly. “Just look at the people who come here during visiting hours! They need treatment for shock. Why else do they spout that ‘You’re only as old as you feel!’ claptrap? Really, who are they hoping to fool? Not us – themselves!”

Ernie concluded, “Us elderly are the modern lepers. That’s the truth of it.”

How is this part of the decline of civilization? Cavendish’s UK is full of policies that benefit corporations but make life unnecessarily difficult for individuals. Outside Aurora House, he’s constantly being bullied and expected to wait in lines or wait for trains that unexpectedly stop short of their destinations and leave him stranded. Conformity and patience are expected everywhere, and as people age, their tolerance for this type of institutionalization fades, so we lock them in special homes “for their own good.” Didn’t someone somewhere say that the true measure of a civilization is how it treats its elderly?

Among the things not confiscated is the manuscript of a mystery novel that he was to have considered for publication, Half-Lives, the first Luisa Rey mystery.

Part Three: Hard-Boiled Detective Story, Environmental Edition

Think Dashiell Hammett, but in 1970s California. Actually, skip that and think The Pelican Brief. Luisa Rey is a small-time reporter for a disreputable magazine who finds out that the local nuclear power plants are not actually that safe, and that her town is ready to go Chernobyl. The company that runs it, backed by the government, does everything in its power to destroy all the evidence so they can go on making money until central California turns into a Thalidomide baby factory. Luisa makes friends with one of the top physicists on the project when the two get trapped in an elevator during a power outage. She tells him about a very brief interview she once had with Alfred Hitchcock:

He didn’t answer my questions because he didn’t really hear them. His best works, he said, are roller coasters that scare the riders out of their wits but let them off at the end giggling and eager for another ride. I put it to the great man, the key to fictitious terror is partition or containment: so long as the Bates Motel is sealed off from our world, we want to peer in, like at a scorpion enclosure. But a film that shows the world is a Bates Motel, well, that’s . . . the stuff of Buchenwald, dystopia, depression. We’ll dip our toes in a predatory, amoral, godless universe – but only our toes. Hitchcock’s response was […] ‘I’m a director in Hollywood, young lady, not an Oracle at Delphi.’

With Luisa, we get to see the corporate evil up close, almost as clearly as we do with Sonmi, but more realistically because it’s set in a time that we’re familiar with. Luisa also ends up with a set of letters that her physicist friend keeps with him at all times, from his only true love.

Part Two: Modern Art

Think Virginia Woolf, or D. H. Lawrence, or E. M. Forster. Robert Frobisher is an impoverished composer, recently removed from Cambridge without earning a degree. He dashes off to Belgium in 1931 to work as a scribe for an aging big-name, and to hide from his English creditors. He calls his physicist friend the one true love of his life, but that doesn’t stop him from sleeping around with men and women of all types.

Next I found a backstreet church (steered clear of the tourist places to avoid disgruntled book dealers) of candles, shadows, doleful martyrs, incense. Haven’t been to church since the morning Pater cast me out. Street door kept banging shut. Wiry crones came, lit candles, went. Padlock on the votive box was of the best. People knelt in prayer, some moving their lips. Envy ‘em, really I do. I envy God, too, privy to their secrets. Faith, the least exclusive club on Earth, has the craftiest doorman. Every time I’ve stepped through its wide-open doorway, I find myself stepping out on the street again. Did my best to think beatific thoughts, but my mind kept running its fingers over Jocasta. Even the stained-glass saints and martyrs were mildly arousing. Don’t suppose such thoughts get me closer to Heaven.

Frobisher is a joy to read, but I think I would have a hard time being around him if he were real. His boss starts stealing his material, so he decides to go on his own, despite threats of being ruined. He writes a sextet for piano, flute, oboe, cello, clarinet, and violin, which by all accounts is very beautiful, but I doubt I’ll ever get to hear it.

Like Cavendish’s ghastly ordeal, it might seem hard to place this in the context of corporate destruction, but Frobisher does experience the snobbish philistinism of those who made their fortunes in trade. He also goes to visit his brother’s grave – Adrian died in The Great War. While there, he chats with a diamond merchant who tells him that the only constants in human life are war and diamonds, and that the end of it will be the destruction of the race, which is a bit more prophetic than either of them realize.

Frobisher spends some time at his employer’s house looking for rare books to steal, and he comes across one of those old South-Sea journals.

Part One: Nineteenth-Century Travelogue

Think Herman Melville. Lots and lots of Melville. Adam Ewing is a notary from San Francisco on a long journey home from Australia. He’s naïve and devout, which leads to frequent conflict with the captain and crew. He does get to witness firsthand how religion is put to use, enslaving the natives for corporate gains in the name of God. In the end, I think that his last page gets right at what the book is all about:

If we believe humanity is a ladder of tribes, a colosseum of confrontation, exploitation & bestiality, such a humanity is surely brought into being, […] If we believe that humanity may transcend tooth & claw, if we believe divers races & creeds can share this world as peaceably as the orphans share their candlenut tree, if we believe leaders must be just, violence muzzled, power accountable & the riches of the Earth & its Oceans shared equitably, such a world will come to pass.

Our belief both reflects and shapes the world we live in. I believe this very strongly, which is why I often ignore my friends’ advice to be canny and careful and end up in the scrapes of the naïve. I want the world to be a good place, so I insist on believing it is so. I want people to be good, so I assume they are better than they are. And I doubt I’ll stop, because I want to make the world a better place, and this is where I choose to start.

Ewing imagines his father-in-law mocking him:

He who would do battle with the many-headed hydra of human nature must pay a world of pain & his family must pay it along with him! & only as you gasp your dying breath shall you understand, your life amounted to no more than one drop in a limitless ocean!

And he replies:

Yet what is any ocean but a multitude of drops?

One person can make a difference. I don’t know what my lifelong legacy will be; if someone were to write an eighty-page story that sums up me, I don’t know what he would choose as the turning point, where I make an irrevocable decision that sets my course in a firm new direction. But I’ll do what I can, and let history account for me as it may. One ignorable drop in an ocean of hope.

Nietzsche’s idea of the eternal return comes back here. The implication is that the six protagonists are really one person, reincarnated several times. Similar patterns emerge, similar choices must be made, similar thoughts are thunk. Like these bits about the title:

Zachry:

I watched clouds awobbly from the floor o’ that kayak. Souls cross ages like clouds cross skies, an’ tho’ a cloud’s shape nor hue nor size don’t stay the same, it’s still a cloud an’ so is a soul. Who can say where the cloud’s blowed from or who the soul’ll be ‘morrow? Only Sonmi the east an’ the west an’ the compass an’ the atlas, yay, only the atlas o’ clouds.

Cavendish:

Three or four times only in my youth did I glimpse the Joyous Isles, before they were lost to fogs, depressions, cold fronts, ill winds, and contrary tides . . . I mistook them for adulthood. Assuming they were a fixed feature in my life’s voyage, I neglected to record their latitude, their longitude, their approach. Young ruddy fool. What wouldn’t I give now for a never-changing map of the ever-constant ineffable? To possess, as it were, an atlas of clouds.

And of course, Frobisher’s composition is called the Cloud Atlas Sextet. Characters remember events from past lives, end up living in the same places, and even run into people with similar names. The genre changes, the situations are often different, but the details are somehow the same. Like that comet-shaped birthmark they all have.

I’ve been wondering why my subconscious is sending me to so many books about historical recurrences, and I think it’s a warning. This summer I vacationed in the place I think of as home, and I’ve been really tempted to move back. It’s a wonderful place to live, and my current situation is unsatisfactory. But. What kind of life would I have? Working more than sixty hours a week divided between two part-time jobs, still only paying my bills with more luck than foresight, hoping for a romantic connection with someone whom I barely know? That’s no life at all. If I were assured of full-time employment (or full-time romance), it would be different. But things being as they are, it would be completely daft of me to try it. I remember how depressed I was, even in that paradise. In this case, I’m going to try to approach the next step in my journey with more logic than sentiment. An atypical approach for me, but we’ll see how that works.

Oh, and there was a movie, too.

I think this is probably the best possible film that could be made based on this book. Each of the stories is twisted a little, some a lot, but film is a different medium with different constraints, etc. The six stories are all mixed up together instead of being arranged tidily, so instead of matryoshka dolls it becomes scrambled eggs. They reuse most of the actors in each story, which drives home the reincarnation theme and the déjà vu feel, but it’s not obvious most of the time; aside from dramatic differences in makeup, many of them also change gender. Being a film, it’s often more dramatic and more violent than the book; it also has more romance. Zachry the teenager and Meronym the fifty-year-old Prescient are an unlikely couple, but if you cast them with Tom Hanks and Halle Berry, it suddenly makes more sense. With this plot omelet, any gesture toward making sense is welcome. I also love what they do with Old Georgie, Zachry’s hallucination of the devil. This movie is filmed beautifully, but I think that you really ought to either read the book or watch the film several times to be able to follow it. Considering how many times you might need to watch the film, it’s probably more time-efficient to read the book.